Let's have a thread for written original content. post any poetry, prose, stories, or articles you have written yourself. Please be friendly.
Here's a story I wrote. It's not very good.
It's a hot summer night. The windows are open. Lights flash, cars drive by outside. The bed's too hot to sleep in. All the blankets are piled in the corner. As the AC blows into the room, the possibility of sleep becomes increasingly remote.
Now it's two in the morning. Open the window. Look out. Try to find unconsciousness somewhere in the blurry city lights and the constant line of cars rushing like veins towards hearts unknown and unseen.
On the street below, there's a shuffling movement. Streetlights turn a man orange. He's wearing a suit and tie, holds a briefcase, seems asleep or sleepwalking. Behind him is a woman, mid thirties, a housewife maybe, or a schoolteacher. Behind her, another. The line of people marches past like army ants on their way to an anthill from some distant piece of food or drop of water.
Where are they going? What are they doing? The sight of them brings unease, maybe, or longing.
There's a feeling of uncertain loneliness in these questions. Could you follow them? Perhaps you could. Perhaps you could go with them, towards their unseen destination. Perhaps.
But not tonight. Close the window. Crawl into the now-cold bed, draw the blankets near. The line of people marches past the darkness of the room, now, and paints scenes of ancient battle and intrigue on the walls. Eyes close. The line marches through closed lids, and into the land of myth, fable, dreamtime.
The vision through the window chases you far into the morning, riding on the sunlight slanting through the window, long after the night has ended and the shadows have departed and all mysteries appear solved and forgotten.
Quack Quack! I wake up to the familiar cry of my alarm duck. It is early and i feel like a cheeky swear, but i mustn't, as swears reveal the baseness of one's creative writing ability to anyone unlucky enough to read them; I wouldn't want my very own alarm duck thinking ill of me. I hurriedly shave the thin red hairs from my legs and put on my cute frilly skirt, dress thing. It's frilly enough to be cute but not too frilly as to make others question my authority, i am a professional after all.
The bus was late but i got to sit next to an boy with funny hair and a yellow raincoat that made me think of my faithful companion back home. Alarm duck. The day's not even half done and i already miss you. 20 minutes later and i arrive; soon to be on my way up to the 28th floor of that dark corporate building that would look much taller if a quarter of it wasn't underwater. I finish saying hello to the fish outside the glass elevator and am welcomed by my lovely workers whom are standing to attention and holding their personal home brought-to-work mugs proudly. This begins my day as quality assurance ensurer at ---------------
We wander in a place; a land betwixt high morality and debauchery. Day after day, vaporwave blares, and the neon lights of life flair. I witness individuals high, individuals die, individuals lie, and individuals cry. We're at our peak, I suppose, before we dive further into fever dreams of text on every screen, emotions are an inch away, but I feel so detached from it all, the omnipresence of my life within my mind is rotted away by the information that bores its way in. You know, I used to know what a hand felt like and now mine is all I know. Between masturbation sessions and light blaring into my oculi, I feel worn down and hollow. In the hallowed lands we live, people barter with ideas, a majority of which should not exist, ideas today are essentially cancer consistently replicating and reproducing in the minds of the masses on social media. I don't know the creators of any of the ideas, or the sources half the time, but I too join into the circle-jerk, for it is more pleasurable than any drug. A week ago, someone killed themselves, a week later nobody remembers, girls collect cocks like stolen candy, and boys plea for another pussy, but I'm not any better, I'm far from being a saint, and maybe I'll paint my walls with brains just for a little fame, too.
It didn't take long to write, I was inspired by a post on Facebook where a thottie meme trap talked about how good they felt after dropping a bar of xan and a few tabs of ativan
I'm going to contribute a couple of letters that I wrote while roleplaying in Guild Wars 2. It's the only thing I've written since school, so unfortunately it's terrible. I blame OP for making the thread.
59th Scion, 1325 AE
It's been such a long time since I last wrote you a letter. I hope you didn't think I'd forgotten about you. Once again I have been a neglectful daughter, and I'm so very sorry for that. I know I said I'd be in touch more often but until recently, nothing of note had happened, and I didn't want to bore you with my mundane thoughts and troubles.
Last night I left the city to clear my head, but when I arrived in Shaemoor I found Centaurs attacking the village. It looked like the Seraph were struggling to cope - Debs always said that they were undermanned outside of Divinity's Reach, but I never thought that the garrison would fall. Men, Women and Children were being run down right in front of me. I'm ashamed to admit it, Father, but I was scared. I wanted to run back into the city, safe behind those towering walls like I always had been. But in that moment I remembered Deborah. If I ran, like a child, what would she think of me? Dwayna led me there that night for the same reason she led Debs to join the Seraph - because she knew I had the power to help those in need.
As you had asked of me, Father, until last night I had never used my magic on living creatures. I hope you can understand why I had no choice this time. The Seraph were directing us to the Inn, so I searched for survivors and protected them as we made our way to safety. It turns out that Centaurs are easy to manipulate - for the most part I was able to keep them away from the villagers with simple illusions. I didn't have to hurt any of them... not that they deserved my mercy. Their day of reckoning will come, and when Grenth passes Judgement He will not be so forgiving.
While we waited in the inn for the Centaur attack to be repelled, I overheard a Seraph report in to the commanding officer. He said that Captain Thackeray was requesting reinforcements at the garrison. Upon hearing the name I was starstruck. My common sense must have momentarily left me, because I immediately volunteered to go. I know I shouldn't have put myself in further danger but don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same! Logan Thackeray, descendent of Gwen, legendary Defender of Ascalon, and of Keiran, leader of the Ebon Falcons... The blood of Ascalon flows through his veins as it does mine. It might have been the only chance I had to meet him, so I took it. I made my way through the back roads down to the garrison, diverting the attention of any Centaur who happened to spot me. I was able to turn most back to their encampments, but one resisted me and rode towards Shaemoor. I prayed to Lyssa that his eyes would never find the village, even as he stood within it. The Six are merciful, aren't they, Father?
When I arrived at the garrison I found Captain Thackeray and the remaining Seraph holding the gate, pushing back a Centaur platoon. As the Centaur retreated, Captain Thackeray called out for us to advance, and led the charge across the drawbridge. I think he wanted to deny them the chance to regroup, but as we approached the bank on the other side, I noticed that a lone Centaur had remained behind. He was taller than the others, clad in strange charms and totems, and he appeared to be reciting some sort of incantation. I tried to call out a warning to Captain Thackeray, but my words were silenced by the sound of a great cataclysm in the earth that had opened up at the Centaur's feet, from which two colossal stone hands clawed to the surface. They must have been taller than the garrison itself! I know it sounds hard to believe, Father, and I can scarcely believe what I'm writing myself, but it happened. The Centaur must have been a powerful sage to summon an elemental of that size.
I knew I would be of no use in taking it down directly, so I began to search for the Sage, in the hopes that I could dominate his mind and make him dismiss the elemental. In retrospect it was foolish of me - he was obviously much too powerful for me to control. But Dwayna had charged me with a sacred duty that night, and I would have given my life to protect the innocents in service of Her. In any case my efforts were for naught; the Sage had already retreated, and as I ran across the field to pursue him, I blacked out.
Have you ever been knocked unconscious, Father? It's a peculiar feeling... like a dreamless slumber. Three days passed instantaneously. Don't worry though, I'm fine. I still don't remember exactly what happened to me, but I awoke in the Inn in Shaemoor, being tended to by a Priestess of Dwayna. She told me that I was struck by a large stone that had been flung through the air by the maelstrom surrounding the elemental. Captain Thackeray had brought me to safety personally. He's an honourable man. Of course, that's because of his Ascalonian heritage. A Krytan would have left me for the centaurs - isn't that so, Father?
I thanked her for taking care of me, and as I left, the Priestess reminded me that Dwayna shielded me from harm that night, so I must pay the favour on. As I sit at home recuperating, writing this letter to you, those words resonate in my mind. I already live my life in servitude of the Six, but now I owe a debt to Them moreso than ever. I think I'll head out to Queensdale as soon as I'm fully healed, in order to fulfill the task I have been given. Please don't worry for me, Father. I have proven to myself that I am capable of great things. I want to make you and Debs proud.
I'll leave the store in good hands. Business always slowed down this time of year, anyway. I'm sure the people of Divinity's Reach can manage without clock repairs for a week or two!
I love you very much, Father. May the Six watch over you.
I've just returned home after a week of travelling Queensdale. I've so many stories to tell you, but not enough paper to write them down on! I'll have to leave some until I can next visit. For now I hope this letter serves to put your mind at rest, because knowing you, the last one has worried you sick.
While I was travelling through Shaemoor fields, I stopped by the windmill to see whether I could be of use to anyone there. Have you even been inside a windmill, Father? This was my first time. They're magnificent things. The inner workings are a lot like clocks! The miller and I had a great talk about the history of his windmill, but he was a busy man and I didn't get to stay for long. It was a good thing I left when I did, though, because as I stepped outside I noticed a bear unusually close to the farm. It turned out that a young lady had decided to picnic on the hillside, on account of the good weather, and the scent of her succulent meat had attracted this bear! I used magic to subvert it's will (I know, I'm sorry - it was an emergency) and sent it off home. The girl was so thankful, she invited me to sit and share her food. She had the most delicious apple pie you've ever tasted. Apparently the old woman who tends to the orchard bakes them. I'll have to bring you one next time I visit.
I spent much of that first day helping out around the farms, clearing up the mess left by bandits. They've become a real problem of late. Was it like that when you were younger? I doubt it. And I'd bet Ascalon never had any bandit trouble either. It makes my blood boil. Anyway, as the sun began to set I started looking for a farm where I could stay the night, and I was approached by a young boy who said he had lost his moa. I told him that I'd search for her, and that he should get back inside otherwise a ghost would spirit him away in the dark - that always worked on me, didn't it Father? Eventually I found the accursed bird, which had managed to wander all the way up to a nearby Ettin cave. Fortunately there was a Seraph nearby keeping watch. Apparently it gets lost regularly, the silly thing. By the time I got back, moa underarm, it was the dead of night. As I was tying the bird to a post, I noticed a person standing under a tree towards the back of the farmhouse, staring up at the window. Something seemed off about her, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it until I got close. Have you ever seen a ghost, Father? What should be flesh is a translucent pale blue, and the air hangs cold and still around them. They are eerily beautiful. I spoke to her, and she told me that Grenth had answered her prayers and allowed her to watch over her family as they slept. Praise Grenth! He is merciful and He is just. I fell on my knees and said a prayer for Mother. Maybe one day, if Grenth wills it, I will be permitted to meet her. I'm sure she is as lovely as you always said she was.
The next day I headed off for Claypool. It was a long journey, and the roads were dangerous where there was no Seraph prescence, but I made it eventually. I arrived in the afternoon to find the Seraph training refugees. Apparently a militia is needed to protect the township, because Seraph resources are stretched so thin. They allowed me to participate, bless them. I fired a gun for the very first time! I wasn't very good with it, though. I'm sure you'd have had a hearty laugh at my expense. I booked a room in the local inn and then headed down to Clayent Falls. You remember the place, right? We'd sit on the bank and skip stones across the lake. Mine always sank on the first bounce, but you could make yours reach the other side. I still don't know how you did that. When I reached the lake, a Priest of Lyssa was standing at the water's edge. He recognised me as a devotee, and we spent many hours at the lake edge discussing the Scriptures, the recent scholarly expoditions into Orr, and other such subjects. He was a very learned man and I was fortunate to be able to speak with him. Eventually the sky began to darken, so I received his blessing and took my leave.
In the morning I spoke to the Mayor of Claypool, who told me that they were having some trouble with centaurs to the northeast. They had set up camp outside the town's walls, and were attacking the supply caravans. Now I know what you're thinking, Father, but what was I supposed to do? After everything that happened at Shaemoor... I couldn't just leave, could I? But do not fear, I didn't try to fight them. I waited for the cover of darkness, when the Centaur were off raiding, and I burned their camp to the ground. I made sure the tents were empty, first. Nobody got hurt, so it's okay, right? They'll have to travel back to their own towns for shelter, so that should put an end to the attacks, at least for a while. I know it was dangerous, but I did the right thing.
After a few more days staying in Claypool, I stocked up on supplies and set off once again, this time towards Beetletun. I left in the evening, because I knew I'd be travelling through the Heartwoods where there aren't many Seraph, and I felt safer being able to hide in the darkness. I'd been hiking through the forest for a few hours when the moonlight illuminated a glade in the distance. I could make out huge shadows moving across the clearing. You'd told me stories about the Oakhearts, Father, but to be honest I never believed you. They were so big, and so gentle. They didn't seem to mind my prescence in their grove at all - perhaps because they sensed my piety. I approached one of them, and he looked at me with sad, ancient eyes. I reached out and touched the rough bark of his face, and in that moment I was so overcome with emotion that I wept. Being a city girl, I had never really understood the beauty of Melandru's creations. As I wept, he slowly brought his huge body down and lay in the grass at my feet. I sat with him and prayed to Melandru for the gift she had given me. That night I slept in the arm of that Oakheart, listening to the sound of the fireflies and the creaking of his brothers as they patrolled the glade. I probably should have felt fear, as the woods are a dangerous place to spend the night, but instead I felt Melandru's love, for I knew that She was looking down on me, and blessing me with Her protection.
Not much happened the rest of the way to Beetletun. I passed a hunting lodge, and while I was weary from travel I did not stop there. I could hear the raucous laughter of those lawless blasphemers from outside. I should have reproached them and tried to turn them back to the Six - I know that's what you would have done - but I was far too tired to pick another fight. Sinners like them will see the error of their ways one day, even if Grenth himself has to show them. Eventually, though, I did arrive in Beetletun. It wasn't at all how I remember it. The people were so stuffy and aloof; I tried to talk to a chef there about the wonderful smell coming from his oven, but he turned me away with a snort. I felt like everyone was looking down their noses at me. Was it always that way, Father? In any case, I don't know what they had to feel so proud about - their town was a den of sin. I saw children shirking their duties and disrespecting their elders, I heard vain women openly boasting of their beauty, I saw graffiti on the houses and in the alleys. I would have left immediately if it weren't for the fact that the carnival was in town. I couldn't believe my luck! Do you remember taking me and Debs to the carnival, Father? You would always buy us cotton candy - if only to put an end to our incessant pleading. So naturally the first thing I did was get some. The cloying sweetness of it brought the memories of those long summer days flooding back. It wasn't all nostalgia, though - there was a new act I hadn't seen before. Dancing moas! Imagine that. Trained by an Asura. What a waste of her genius. I wanted to tell her she could put her brains to better use in service of the Six, but after her act was over she left in a hurry.
I took the southern roads back home because I wanted to stop by Eldvin Monestary. I can't say I approve of their brewery, but I suppose even monks need to make a living somehow. I found them to be pleasant enough, and we chatted for a while about Kormir's blessings. They were surprisingly loose lipped with the secrets of their brewing methods. I'm not sure if that's because of their devotion to the Goddess of Truth or all the ale they drink! While there, I was approached by the Abbot, who asked if I might assist them in escorting a delivery of brew to a nearby Lionguard post. I didn't feel comfortable taking on this duty, but have you ever tried to say no to a jolly monk? Besides, Kormir wouldn't be pleased with me if I refused to aid her disciples. What the Abbot failed to mention, however, was that the outpost was deep in the heart of Godslosts Swamp. By the time I realised where we were heading, it was too late. Forgive me, Father, but I don't want to talk about what happened there.
Well, that's the end of that. I made it home in one piece, just like I told you I would. I've received a few letters from the grateful farmers of Queensdale in the days since. I'm just happy I was able to help so many. It's a wonderful feeling - now I think I can better understand why Deborah became a Seraph. Life should be back to normal now. My debt to Dwayna for Her protection at Shaemoor has been repaid, and in any case I don't think there's anyone left in the whole of Queensdale who needs my assistance! Apparently Andrew and Petra called for me while I was away, so I'll head over to the inn and say hello. I'll make sure to give them your love.
staring at a cold blank wall, he feels sweat sticking, condensation masturbation where had his pet gone unfazed, he reaches for his phone, in bed alone, exhausted and prone, emotions are leaking. his high peaking, eyes are unblinking as pupils go wide his ego dies and he begins crying but
so many people hes told, so many people have left, so many people angry as his mind starts breaking and heart becomes achey he thinks back, hurts bad, keeps going, eyes black, he remembers that bed his pet, she climbs up, she sleeps, very still he reaches for the bottle and pours. one two three four mouth filled with pills five six seven eight body shaking thrilled nine ten eleven twelve his mind has killed his body now fried so sick and tired he tried, he lies back down on the bed eyes roll back as salivary glands activate body contorts as spit runs down face spine is bending as air starts to vacate the bed begins shaking ad his pet now awakes she looks at her friend and her face goes blank a scream starts erupting his stomach erupting her legs are now running to future too fast
hands on the phone she opens his note to find that he wrote that she ended his life. too late now phone drops to ground she hears that sound sirens all around press pound to try again.
but she did nothing wrong he should have been strong he should have known to be more grown to talk, to not let things get out of hand, now she is in the van, doors close, she knows, composed, a way out.
Jerry was a fuarrrking door, Jerry fell and fuarrrked the floor. Through the floor jerry went, and got his fuarrrking hinges bent. Hinges bent and screws loose, Jerry tied a fuarrrking noose. Jerry slipped his handle through, kicked the chair and Jerry flew. Six inches off the floor, Jerry fuarrrking hated doors.
YOU BIG MOUTHED LYING FREAK. YOU WITH THE BRUISED EYES, TINY PUPILS SO AS TO NOT TAKE IN TOO MUCH LIGHT. fuarrrk YOU glitterboy
There she was dirty and pure. There she was black and light. There she was savage and professional There she was instigative and unconfrontational. There she was molestative and innocuousness. There she was defenestrating my absolutaqualitatively astounding organs with her elongated serrated fake nails.
Keep going you fuarrrking . Finish the job. Pour me some more of that poison, pour me more of that nuclear cancer water, pour me more semen. Look at what you've made. A disproportional erotic scribble you're embarassed to look at now. A child you mothered with a psychotic father who he looks just like. A friend you are now embarassed of. A soykafstain, piss on the toilet seat, those piercings you hide, vomit. vomit. vomit. I love vomit I love throw up I love bile I love puke I love upchuck I love purging I love sickness I love disease I am ill please kill me.
YOUR A fuarrrkING LEECH. A DRAIN ON ME. A REMINDER THAT IM A LEECH. A LEECH ON A LEECH. I HAVE NO ROOM FOR MORE LEECHES. SOME WILL HAVE TO GO, THIS LIFEBOAT CAN ONLY HOLD SO MANY FIRST COME FIRST SERVE. SINK THE WHOLE SHIP. OLD PEOPLE FIRST WOMEN AND CHILDREN LAST. VISE VERSA. ONLY WOMEN, JUST THE HOT ONES PLEASE. IL fuarrrk THEM AND DUMP THEM IN THE WATER TO MAKE ROOM FOR THE NEXT. LOADS AND LOADS OF CHILDREN SWIMMING, AN ENTIRE RAFT NOW MADE OF SQUIRMING HUMAN BODIES. WRITHING BLOATED FLESH. A BEING OF ITS OWN, IN A CYCLE OF ROT AND REBIRTH
I am the fastest skateboarder on this side of town, and to be perfectly fair nobody skates on any side but this side. So to be honest I guess im the best in town period. Nobody can fuarrrk off, so honest and perfectly fair can go be someone else for now.
Ive got this metal bat and I carry it around and I wear a baseball hat and I wear it upside down and when I smash a few heads and some bodies hit the ground well the police look away and silence witnesses they found and i bear some when I can myself but i usually just frown cause othee people killing people are driving me out of town.